


And Into Ashes All My Lust

by trentedeuxdents



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Damian is the Demon's Head, Jason wears a muzzle, League of Assassins AU, M/M, everyone is sexy and murderous and of age, jaydami - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trentedeuxdents/pseuds/trentedeuxdents
Summary: He re-angles himself to trace his fingers over the scar on Jason’s chest. It is a brand, a sigil in the shape of a jackal, that Talia had burned into him the day he awoke from the Lazarus pit. A permanent mark of ownership, a sign that he is property bound to the blood of Al Ghul.“They all think you’re mine. That you belong to me.” Damian says finally. He pauses. “They're all wrong.”
Relationships: Jason Todd/Damian Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 186





	And Into Ashes All My Lust

**Author's Note:**

> As always I am utterly incompetent when it comes to titles. Short drabble because I’m starved for Al Ghul Damian content. Might re-edit later.

Damian does not enjoy wearing the mask. Though it looks to be made of gold, it is in fact made of a much heavier steel, and weighs uncomfortably on his neck and shoulders. The jackal eyes are narrow and slanted and restrict his range of vision—dangerous, if he were to ever find himself in combat—but then again, anyone who would dare attack a prince regent in court is good as dead.

He only ever wears this mask in the throne room, when he is holding court. _The mask is more than a mask_ , Talia has told him time and again, _it is a symbol. When you don it, you are no longer Damian Al Ghul, but the Demon’s Head. All must bow before you; to even spy your visage is an honour reserved only for the truly worthy. For anyone else, it is a crime tantamount to treason._

All his life he has been trained for this. All the maps and tomes, trials and scars, they had all been stones paving up to this very moment—Damian, wearing his grandfather’s mask, seated in his grandfather’s throne. He has been groomed specifically for this. He has been taught to _relish_ it.

He does not understand why it exhausts him.

“My grandfather, as you should well know by now Commander, is indisposed. He cannot grant you an audience.”

The Commander is a tall, boorish man, imposing and indignant. He leers openly at Damian and Damian feels, not for the first time this morning, his patience fraying around the edges.

“Does he not care about the attack on his forces?” The Commander taunts. “In the last three months alone my unit has been ambushed five times by rebel assassins. We are not the only ones. The League is tearing itself apart from the inside out, as you sit there on his throne, doing _nothing_.”

Damian tilts his head impatiently. “I have sworn to crush Lady Shiva and her League of Shadows, along with all the other traitors who have betrayed my family.”

“ _Your_ family?” The Commander lets out a derisive laugh. “You, a mere _boy_ , sired by some nameless bastard? You are no more fit to be an Al Ghul than that traitor Nyssa.”

To his left, Damian hears the ring of steel being drawn out of a scabbard. The throne room suddenly falls very, very quiet, as if anticipating a storm. The Commander sneers.

“Keep a leash on your dog, boy. A loyal mutt makes you no ruler.”

“No?” Damian asks softly, dangerously. 

He taps his left forefinger on the armrest of the throne, twice.

Jason streaks forward in a flash of red and silver, and before anyone has time to react, the Commander is howling on the ground, both hands clasped around his mouth. A stream of red dribbles through his fingers onto the sandstone floor, spattering it a sickly brown. Jason flings something at his feet, with all the disdain of a passerby throwing scraps to a stray dog.

Lying on the ground, stained with blood and dust, is a pulsing, human tongue.

Damian rises slowly from his throne and holds out his right hand. Jason hands him his sword and he swings it twice, languidly, its weight and balance utterly familiar.

“You were right,” he says, pacing in a circle around the whimpering commander. “My mutt _is_ loyal, unlike you. And like me, he does not tolerate traitors.”

Jason claps his hands, and a servant appears bearing a holographic projector on a tray of gold. He activates it, and a screen bursts out to loom above the throne room.

“Several months ago, my men intercepted this correspondence.” Damian continues. “Do you recognize it, Commander? It seems _you_ would happen to know the location of Lady Shiva and her band of traitors. In fact, you have known for quite some time now.

“You have been staging attacks on your own units, as your spies feed us false intelligence, all in an attempt to frame me as incompetent. I did warn you, Commander, that it would be wise not to forget who you are dealing with.”

Damian plants a heavy boot on his back, and the Commander whines like a goat at the slaughtering block, choking and gurgling on his own blood.

“ _I_ am the Demon Head now.”

With that he raises his sword, and brings it down in one, swift stroke.

*

When Damian returns to his chambers with Jason in tow, his boots are still spattered with blood. The servants in waiting flurry around him, fingers reaching out to untie his armor, and Damian brushes them aside impatiently. 

“Leave us.” He barks out, and the servants reluctantly dissipate. When they are finally alone, Damian removes his mask and dashes it into the floor.

“I hate that fucking thing,” he growls.

“I know,” Jason says, his voice distorted by the modulator. The muzzle is still in place, but Damian can tell from his eyes that he’s grinning. “Personally, I prefer you without it.”

Damian closes his eyes and sighs, allowing himself to lean into Jason's open embrace. With nimble, practiced fingers, Jason starts to untie the pieces of his armor, letting them shed off one by one, careless and unwanted.

When he is done, it is Damian’s turn. He very carefully frees Jason of his muzzle, allowing his fingers to linger on Jason’s jaw for a few moments, before moving down to untie his vambrace. Even with his head bowed he can feel the heat of Jason's gaze on his face. Jason’s fingers are still covered in blood, and Damian examines them closely before briefly pressing his cheek into Jason's palm.

“Come." He murmurs, beckons. "We must cleanse ourselves of the traitor’s blood.”

*

The bathing pool is large and delightfully cool, with water lilies floating idly on the surface. Damian rests with his back against Jason’s chest, their fingers intertwined as he attempts to scrub the remaining blood from under his nails. It is an irksome task, made all the more frustrating by the fact that the dried blood refuses to come off.

“Perhaps I should consider wearing gloves.” Jason muses aloud. Damian scowls.

“And make you look even more like an executioner?”

“Isn’t that what I do?” Jason asks, amused. “You know full well I would kill anyone for you.”

"If only it were that easy." Damian leans his forehead into the side of Jason’s neck. "Half the League covets my favor, while the other half lusts for my blood. And at every turn, a new betrayal." He says bitterly. "There is no one I can trust."

Jason guides their linked hands to his lips, and kisses Damian’s knuckles, one by one. “Then I shall slaughter them all, and build you a new empire on their bones.” He tilts Damian's chin up towards him. "You need only ask."

Damian does not reply. He re-angles himself to trace his fingers over the scar on Jason’s chest. It is a brand, a sigil in the shape of a jackal, that Talia had burned into him the day he awoke from the Lazarus pit. A permanent mark of ownership, a sign that he is property bound to the blood of Al Ghul.

“They all think you’re mine. That you belong to me.” Damian says finally. He pauses. “They're all wrong.”

Jason’s hand drifts down to Damian’s bare hip. There, almost too small to notice, is a similar brand, but of a different shape. This one had been a gift, one that was given and received willingly.

“ _I_ belong to _you_.” Damian sighs into his skin, his body sagging as though this confession alone has been a great reprieve. Jason digs his fingers into the mark and crushes his mouth to Damian’s, with the fierceness of certainty that every last word is true.


End file.
